


Drabbles and Ficlets

by town_without_heart



Series: The Criminal Keeper 'verse [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014), The Flash - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Len and Mick had some serious issues as kids, NoPowers!Barry, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-21 21:56:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7406455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/town_without_heart/pseuds/town_without_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of stand-alone drabbles and ficlets in the Criminal Keeper 'verse. Additional characters and tags will be added with each chapter.</p><p>1) Regrets // Joe, Iris, Wally<br/>2) Burn // Len, Mick<br/>3) Kitchen // Barry, Mick</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Regrets // Joe, Iris, Wally

**Author's Note:**

> I'd highly recommend reading "The Criminal Keeper" for these ficlets to make sense.
> 
> Takes place: About two and a half years before the events of “The Criminal Keeper.”

***

The room is comfortable. Cozy.

The overhead lights are off, but the dying light of the day creeps through the open curtains, wrapping fading fingers around everything it can reach. More light pours from the fireplace, carefully tended. Several split logs of wood are propped against each other behind the closed metal grate, and they pop and crackle cheerfully. The fire will burn a good hour before smoldering to embers as it heats the whole living room. 

Joe West, tumbler of brandy in one hand, sits in his favorite, plush chair. He sips his drink and stares into the fire. His eyes are empty as he watches the flames lick at the wood, a gentle movement despite its destructive nature. The soft light from the setting sun mingles with the hard light from the fire, and the shadows dance like living things along the walls and floor.

The scene isn’t a strange one. Not really.

Joe is a detective. Has _been_ a detective for nearly three decades, and there are nights that Iris and Wally have come home from a friend’s house or baseball practice or some other childhood event to find him like this. Sitting, starring blankly into the fire. An occupational hazard of the job, really. That thousand mile stare that speaks of regret, of could-have-beens and might-have-beens and what-if-I’d-done-this-insteads.

It doesn’t happen everyday. It doesn’t even happen every month.

But sometimes. Once in a while. Enough that that Iris and Wally know what’s going on. Know to go to the kitchen and make a cup of hot tea with a spoonful of sugar and a splash of the brandy that still sits on the countertop. Know to carry it between small, careful hands to the living room and set it gently on the table in front of their dad’s unseeing eyes. Know to sit down next to him, squeezing between their dad’s body and the plush armrests as they wrap an arm around him, lay their head on his shoulder and wait.

And Joe will come back to himself. Slowly, surely. He’ll swap his empty glass for the cup of tea made with love and his free arm will pull his kids close as he presses a grateful kiss to the top of Iris or Wally’s head.

He loves his children. And that’s enough to bring him back every time.

So when Iris and Wally walk through the front door and spot Joe in the living room, they both pause for a moment, just long enough to take in the scene. Their dad in his favorite chair, glass in one hand. His other hand is holding what looks to be a photograph. His eyes are on the fire, and he isn’t there. He’s somewhere else.

Iris sighs, a soft, sad sound. She leans over to Wally and murmurs quietly, “Will you make the tea?”

Wally nods and replies, just as quietly, “On it. Back in a few.”

As her little brother goes to the kitchen, Iris makes her way through the living room. The old, wooden floorboards creak under her weight with every step, but Joe doesn’t seem to notice. Though she is too old, too big to squeeze next to her father on the same chair – has been for years, really – that doesn’t stop her from pulling the cushioned footrest forward. She settles it slightly to the side of Joe’s chair, and when she sits on it, she doesn’t block his view of the fireplace.

“Hey, dad,” Iris says, and she reaches out to rub his forearm lightly, mindful of the photograph he holds. It is a slow gesture, a comfort. “Rough day at work?”

Joe takes a sip of his brandy and stares at the fire. He doesn’t answer her question directly. Instead he asks, “Do you remember a couple of months ago? The precinct hired a new junior CSI?”

Iris blinks at the apparent non sequitur, but she has known her father for years. She purses her lips, wracks her brain. “I think so?” Then, more confidently, “Oh, right. I remember you saying something about how it was nice to get some fresh blood in the department, even if being surrounded by pretty boys with fancy hair made you feel like an old man.”

That startles a laugh out of Joe. A small one. Really just a quiet snort, a shake of his head.

But it’s better than nothing. 

“That’s all I saw of the kid,” Joe says finally. “His hair. Tall and lanky, always running late. And the back of his head, that fluffy, brown hair.”

“Did–” Iris pauses, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She searches for the right words. “Did something happen to the new CSI? I didn’t hear–”

“No.” Joe shakes his head again, vehement. “No, it’s not–” He stops, sips his brandy, collects his thoughts before continuing, “No deaths at the precinct today, angelface.”

Iris lets out a “whew” of relief. There are good days and bad days at any job, but the worst days for the precinct are the days when they lose one of their own. And okay, maybe she doesn’t know this CSI from a hole in the ground, but whatever it is that set her dad off, at least it wasn’t his death.

“Then what’s wrong, dad?”

“Just.” Joe glances at the photo he’s holding, and he sighs. “Do you remember this?”

Another non sequitur. He holds the photograph out to her, and she takes it gingerly.

It’s old. Fifteen years old, give or take. The glossy surface of the picture is fading, worn with age. It’s a group shot of a picnic in Central Park, and her father is instantly recognizable. A little less gray in his hair, and fewer lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth. He’s grinning, sandwiched between a man and a woman with similar expressions, sprawled out on the blanket on the grass, grinning up at the camera. The man and woman look strangely familiar, but she can’t quite place the tickle at the corner of her memories.

And that’s. Huh. That’s funny, because there are two kids in the photo, sitting side by side in front of the adults. A little girl and a little boy. The little girl is Iris. The little boy– 

“Oh,” Iris breathes, staring at the photo. “That’s.”

“Us,” Joe replies, and he finishes his brandy. The empty glass clinks as he sets it on the table. “And the Allen family.”

“I forgot,” Iris says, and her eyes are wide. “How did I forget about Barry?”

“About who?” Wally asks as he strides into the living room and sets a steaming cup of tea on the table next to Joe’s empty glass. He drags another footrest forward, setting himself up on Joe’s other side, across from Iris. The three of them form a triangle, with Joe’s chair, and Iris’ and Wally’s footrests as the three points.

“Barry Allen,” Iris says, and the weight is – crushing. “He’s. He was my best friend growing up. He lived right down the street–”

“Really?” Wally blinks, clearly racking his brain. “Did I ever meet him?”

“It was right around when your mom got sick,” Joe explains. “I think the both of you had just moved back in with me and Iris. You were young, you probably don’t remember the news.”

“I forgot,” Iris whispers again, voice heavy with muted misery. “There was so much going on and I just. I forgot.”

To Wally, Joe adds, “Henry Allen, Barry’s dad, was arrested for the murder of Nora Allen, Barry’s mom. Barry was – well, neither of his grandparents were still alive, and he didn’t have any aunts or uncles to take him in. He went into the system.”

Wally’s eyes widen. “That’s – wow. That’s rough.”

Joe turns his attention to the distraught Iris, pats her gently on her knee. “We both forgot, kiddo. It was – between your mom coming back, and her being so sick, and having a brand new little brother. It’s not your fault, you were just a kid.”

Iris bites her lip, shakes her head. “That doesn’t make it any better, dad. He was just a kid, too. And he lost _everything_. Do you know if he – is he okay?”

Joe turns the clock back, back, back. Hours disappear in the blink of an eye and he is back to this morning, storming through the precinct with a snarl on his face and a cup of coffee in his hand that hasn’t yet taken effect. He needs the results on a soil analysis for his case, heads up to the second floor CSI’s labs to get it. The terrified techs redirect him to the top floor of the precinct where the newest addition to the ranks works. To be fair, giving the newbie the highest office has always been tradition, making them walk the longest distance to access the lab’s equipment, but all Joe knows is he wants his soil analysis and it should _not_ be this damned difficult to get it.

Having never met the new kid face to face, Joe thoughtlessly asks for a name and is given “Allen. CSI Allen.” And there are a lot of Allens out in the world at large, so he can be forgiven for not making the connection until it’s too late.

Because CSI Allen is a gangly kid with Nora’s eyes and Henry’s tired, crooked smile. Joe stands in the doorway, frozen, assaulted by memories that are over a decade old. 

Allen peers over his microscope, blinking up at Joe with that pleasantly blank expression. Henry’s professional smile, Nora used to call it. He asks, “Can I help you, sir?”

Jesus, even his voice is a haunting mix of Joe’s old friends. Remnants of Henry’s voice mixed with Nora’s syntax. Joe clears his throat, swallows once, hopes that it covers how out of his depth he feels in this moment. He fumbles. “CSI Allen?”

The kid pushes his chair away from the desk, standing in a single, fluid motion. “Barry is fine,” comes the reply. “What can I help you with, Detective?”

And just like that, Joe realizes what’s bothering him. Barry Allen. Barry Allen who spent as many nights sleeping over at Joe’s house as he did his own. Watching the stars with Iris, pointing out constellations and planets over that damned telescope that Henry had given Iris for her sixth birthday. Building volcanoes at seven, a science project, even though Barry had complained that it was the worst application of beginner’s chemistry ever. Playing football together despite Barry’s utter lack of hand-eye coordination, before settling on soccer instead.

Barry Allen, who is right now looking at Joe with all the polite distance of any stranger encountered at the workplace. Who looks at him and sees – any detective or higher figure of authority or anyone, literally anyone else at all.

“Detective?” Barry repeats, cocks his head to the side in a way that Joe remembers well, like an overly curious puppy.

“Soil analysis,” Joe manages to get out. “Bronson case.”

“Oh!” The kid grabs a folder from his desk and walks to where Joe is still frozen in the doorway. He extends the manila folder and Joe’s hand – the one that isn’t clenched around his coffee cup – takes it. “My apologies, Detective. I’d meant to drop that off when I first came in but I got sidetracked by a breakthrough in the Snowfield case.”

Joe stares at the young man. Sees him juxtaposed with a little boy who both he and his daughter loved. But there is no recognition in Barry’s eyes. Without a word, Joe turns and flees.

When Joe comes back to himself, his hand is still on Iris’ knee. She is still looking at him like he can fix anything, and he doesn’t want his daughter to feel like this. He doesn’t want his daughter to know that they have been forgotten, even as they themselves forgot. And it’s all ancient history, and they don’t owe Barry anything, and he doesn’t owe them either, but – 

It hurts. It hurts remembering a kid he loved. A family he loved.

It hurts, being reminded that he has never visited Henry in jail.

“I’m sure Barry’s fine, baby,” Joe says finally. “I just. Sometimes I wonder, is all. If things had been different.” He pats her knee again, then reaches out to pick up the tea that Wally brought him. He takes a sip, and Iris sets the photograph on the table with one last, lingering look.

“Could you look for him, dad?” she finally asks. “Could we – can we do that?”

Joe West is a good man. He’s a good father and a good detective.

But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t make mistakes.

“I’ll see what I can do, angelface,” he hedges, and Iris presses a kiss to his cheek as she stands, and Wally gives him a one-armed hug, and his kids go to the kitchen together to make dinner, like they’d been planning to do when they first came in. Like they have every Friday night for the last decade.

Leaving Joe to sit by the fireplace. He picks up the photograph and stares, ancient history.

Nora Allen, dead. Henry Allen, in jail. Barry Allen... Barry Allen, junior forensic analyst for the CCPD. Hard worker. Quietly polite. Lonely.

He stares at their smiling faces. And he regrets.

***

And the worst part? The worst part happens a year later, when Wally stops by the precinct late one night to visit Joe. He brings a cup of coffee and a bright grin and asks if there’s anything he can do to help. Joe needs a file from Barry’s office, but he’s a fucking coward and Wally is right there. When lightning strikes, when Joe sees his beautiful baby boy lying in broken glass and a pool of water, when Barry skids back into the room looking confused and terrified – 

All Joe can think in that angry, horrified moment is – 

_It should have been you._

***

_fin_


	2. Burn // Len, Mick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place: About twenty years before the events of “The Criminal Keeper,” give or take.
> 
> I blame this ficlet entirely on joyouslee, who left me with this delightful prompt:  
> “But, sheesh, they got together in juvie, when Len was 14, which means that it was probably like, Len gave Mick his cup of fruit cocktail as thanks for saving his life from a guy with a shiv, and Mick gave him the squashed chocolate bar he's been hiding under his bunk. Maybe outside of juvie Mick bought Len some ice cream, and Len bought Mick, hm, bananas foster (the dessert that you get to light on fire!), and that was it for both of them for 30 years. So, like, neither of them have any idea how to woo a guy, and they're just bringing food to Barry in the hopes that he finally gets it, since it worked so well before, and they're baffled because Barry's totally not getting it.”

***

The situation is unremarkable. Although, perhaps this statement is... misleading.

It is more accurate to say the situation has happened before, which is _not_ to say that it is commonplace. Just that certain elements have occurred frequently enough that they are – known. Familiar.

For example, it is not the first time Leonard Snart has been shuttled away to a juvenile detention center, the judge’s expression a statement of disinterest during his brief sentencing. It is not the first time someone – in this particular case, _three_ someones – have take offense to Len’s face, too pretty and too patronizing by turns. It isn’t even the first time a shiv has been brought to a fistfight, though Len is furious at himself more than anyone else.

Because he should have been prepared for this. He knew it was coming – caught the scent of it early in the day, the subtle narrowing of eyes, the underlying tenseness of shoulder, the listless shift and shuffle of sneakered feet – and he should have been _ready_. Not caught off guard, standing with his back to the fence and nowhere to run. The open yard is busy, groups of teens playing basketball on the court, lifting weights by the bleachers, dealing cards around a metal table. Len is backed into a corner of low visibility, with the guards too far away to be of any immediate assistance.

The adolescent meathead with the shiv has the small blade angled in his hand so that it is mostly hidden from sight. His two meathead-goon buddies stand to Len’s right and left respectively, blocking every avenue of escape. 

Len’s hands curl to fists at his sides, and he stares into the smirking face of his enemy. The argument is petty, nothing more than a dislike of Len’s expression. The boy tells everyone that Len thinks he is better than them, that he is looking down on them. Maybe he is. Lewis has always tried to rub Len’s nose in the dirt, so Len tends to stick it in the air just to spite the man.

It’s a habit that’s about to get him stabbed.

A corner of his mind kicks into overdrive, calculating distances and angles, weighing pros and cons. His only chance to get out of this alive is distraction. There is dirt at his feet. He can grab a handful, toss it into kid’s eyes. Momentary blindness is better than nothing, and the boy will swipe at him with the makeshift blade. He has to protect his vulnerable throat, his slender wrists. The shiv’s point is small, sharp. It is lethal only coupled with pinpoint precision. If Len can maneuver it so that he is stabbed in the shoulder, someplace with more muscle and no large veins– 

“Three on one is shit odds.”

The voice is like dull gravel, gruff and monochromatic. It comes from directly behind the boy with the shiv, who jumps as if burned and jerks around. Then, the boy with the shiv is on the ground, whimpering. His hands are cupped around his nose; blood gushes through his fingers, staining his skin and smearing dark red down the front of his white shirt.

Len stares at the face of his unexpected savior, transfixed. Two, maybe three years older than Len, with short, dark hair, and a surly expression on his face. He towers over the boy on the ground, and the muscles of his arms stretch the sleeves of his regulation white tee-shirt. His eyes are dark brown, clouded with some emotion that Len cannot place. His hands are bawled fists, his knuckles raw.

The boy crouches down, scoops up the shiv from where it has fallen. His savior straightens, testing the strength of the plastic with his thumb. He comments, “Nice,” before shoving the makeshift blade into the pocket of his jumper.

The goon to Len’s right takes an aborted step forward, reaching out with one hand. It is unclear if his intention is to help the bleeding boy or attack the one who put him down. The goon to Len’s left shifts uncertainly, does nothing.

“Gonna’ fight me?” Len’s savior asks eagerly. His eyes dart between Len’s perplexed expression and the agitated faces of the goons to the left and right. As he stares down the two boys, he smiles, a slow, sharp thing. 

Then he draws his leg back and savagely kicks the boy on the ground in the face. There is a sick crunch of bones, and blood splatters the dirt.

The goon to Len’s right takes an aborted step back, shrinking away from the violence. He barely hesitates before he makes a break for it and runs to the relative safety of the busy yard. The goon to Len’s left shifts again, torn between loyalty to the boy on the ground and fear of what that loyalty may cost him.

Len’s savior repeats, “Gonna’ fight me?” and the bloody boy on the ground snivels, scrambles weakly, tries to get away.

“Stop,” the goon says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Don’t. Don’t hurt him.”

“Gonna’ make me?” the tall boy asks, still grinning, still eager. He draws his leg back, ready to deliver another kick.

Len takes a tiny, cautious step forward, and his savior’s eyes snap to him, focused but curious. There is something in the boy’s face that is familiar to Len. Something savage. Something hateful.

Len shuffles forward, takes a second step, then a third. When he is directly in front of his savior, he looks down to his pathetic attacker, marveling at this reversal of fortunes. Then he draws his leg back and kicks the whimpering boy in the stomach. The boy makes a wretched, retching noise and brings up a mess of partially digested scrambled eggs and cold cereal, barely missing Len’s sneakers. 

Len’s savior laughs. It’s raw and honest and ugly, and Len falls a little bit in love with the sound.

From the corner of his eye, Len sees a guard stalking towards them, having finally been alerted to the trouble. There is blood and vomit mixed on the ground, and the boy at their feet has a broken nose at the very least. Someone is going to solitary for this.

It isn’t the first time Len’s been in juvie, and he’s fought against worse odds than three to one. It isn’t even the first time someone has brought a shiv – which is currently hidden away in his savior’s pocket – to a fistfight. But it _is_ the first time anyone has ever come to Len’s aid. 

Len doesn’t know how he feels about that, actually. Can’t quite describe the warm twist in his stomach that borders on nausea. But – if Len’s savior goes to solitary for this, they will search his pockets, find the makeshift blade. That could mean extended punishment, additional days spent in solitary confinement. If it isn’t the other boy’s first offense, it could even mean a transfer. 

Unless, of course, someone is clearly responsible for this clusterfuck. Someone who doesn’t have a shiv hidden in his pocket. Someone whose reputation certainly won’t suffer from this little spat of blood and violence.

Len draws his leg back again, kicking the boy on the ground viciously. The guard sees this, draws his baton, barrels towards Len as if he will tackle him to the ground. “Step away, son,” the guard commands, and Len does, lacing his fingers behind his head as he smirks.

There is a crowd gathering now, and Len’s savior melts into it, as does the goon near the fence. The circle forms around Len, the guard, and the bloody boy on the ground, whose face is streaked with tears. There is vomit crusted at the corners of his mouth, and blood and snot and spit down the front of his shirt. He looks so pathetic, so vastly different from the confidently superior boy who cornered Len mere minutes ago.

Len stares out into the crowd, scanning for any sign of his savior as the guard cuffs his hands behind his back. He is shoved forward without ceremony, and he stumbles, catches his footing. The guard waves his baton in a wide, sweeping arc, saying, “Nothing to see here, kids. Show’s over, move along, move along.” 

As they march through the parting crowd, a second guard pushes passed, accompanied by one of the nurses from the infirmary. There is a startled gasp that comes from somewhere, and muted, discontented mumblings from the teens that surround the area.

There, up ahead, Len’s savior is hidden in plain sight. As he watches the procession through narrow eyes, Len watches him. The boy’s hands are stuffed casually in his jumper pockets, and Len imagines one of them is gripped tightly around the handle of a stolen, homemade blade.

***

Len spends one week in solitary confinement as punishment for the altercation. In that time, he learns two important things. First, the boy who attacked him has been transferred to a different facility, due to the severity of his injuries. Second, Len’s unlikely savior is named Mick Rory.

One week in solitary is nothing. Len prefers the relative safety his locked room offers. He finds a comfortable position on his back, stretching out on his cot as he slides a hand beneath the elastic of his boxers. Alone in the small, dark room, hidden by the paper thin sheets, he closes his eyes as he gives himself to fantasy. 

– strong, scarred hands tangle in the front of his tee-shirt, shoving him hard until his back hits the wall – 

– Len grips at those hands, trails his fingers along the corded muscles in those arms, tense like steel, fumbling and eager with desire – 

– he is anger and violence and his mouth is hot on Len’s skin as he bites the tender junction of flesh between neck and shoulder, hard enough to bruise –

Len strokes himself, steady and firm. Imagines it is someone else’s hand, and he thinks about Mick’s voice: _“Gonna’ fight me?”_ Teasing, bordering on cruelty, _“Gonna’ make me?”_

Mick probably fucks with the same single-minded intensity with which he fights, and that shouldn’t turn Len on, but Jesus, fuck, it really does.

Len has kissed a handful of neighborhood girls and boys. He’s fumbled with bras and questing fingers and every time when it is over, he has lost interest immediately. The only thrill he recognizes is that of the chase.

But Mick Rory? Mick Rory is heavy hands and a savage mouth. He is bloody knuckles and fading bruises. He is sharp edges, raw and ugly and honest. He is uncontrolled, indiscriminate hatred.

_– “Gonna’ make me?” –_

Len smothers his groan, bites down on his lower lip, tastes blood. His hand is sticky, his knees are weak. He has never _wanted_ like this before, and he doesn’t know what that means.

***

When Len slides his food tray onto the table and takes an open seat across from Mick Rory in the cafeteria, the older boy grunts once, a non-verbal greeting that hints at disinterest.

A shallow lie, Len knows, because Mick’s eyes follow Len’s every move. Cautious. Curious.

“Mick Rory,” Len says, and he uses his fork to rearrange what may or may not be vegetable casserole on his plate.

“Dunno’ your name,” Mick replies. He doesn’t apologize for it. Just lays it out, clear, a statement of fact. He raises his fork to his mouth, eats his lunch mechanically.

Surprised, Len asks, “You saved my life in the yard, but you don’t know who I am?”

Mick pauses. Looks up. Stares at Len for a minute, then returns his attention to his food.

Intrigued, making sense of the senselessness, Len surmises, “Because... you didn’t do that for me. You don’t care who I am. You just wanted to hurt someone.”

“Don’t want to hurt someone.” Mick denies, polishing off his casserole without expression. Clarifies, “I want to hurt _everyone_.”

They sit in silence for a moment as Len digests that statement. He’s surprisingly okay with it.

Mick slows his pace as he spoons a mouthful of sticky sweet fruit cocktail. His expression doesn’t change, but it’s clear he savors the taste.

“Sweet tooth?” Len asks, listlessly pushing his lunch across his plate.

Mick grunts, which Len takes as a yes. Without a word, Len nudges his cup of fruit cocktail across the table.

The other teen blinks, brow furrowing. Len shrugs, takes a bite of casserole, grimaces at the taste.

“Thank you,” Len finally says.

“For what?”

“For not hurting _me_.”

***

There is always a place for Len at Mick’s table, and more often than not, Len’s fruit cup finds its way onto Mick’s food tray. Sometimes, underneath the table and away from prying eyes, Len’s leg will brush against Mick’s leg. Mick always pulls away.

Mick Rory has never had someone who tried to take care of him before. Who reaches out first, persistent, unyielding, and doesn’t back down. It’s scary, but Mick isn’t a coward, and so he asks, “What do you get out of this, Snart?”

Len grins, that smug, self-satisfied look that tells Mick that the other boy has been waiting patiently for this moment.

“You want to burn the world,” Len says. “I want to sit next to you and watch while you do it.”

Mick doesn’t have anything to say to that. The next day, he smuggles the half-squashed chocolate bar he’s been saving under his mattress into Len’s pocket without a word. Their legs brush under the table, and for the first time, Mick doesn’t pull away.

Somehow Leonard Snart and Mick Rory become Len and Mick, and there isn’t a distinction between them worth mentioning. Because Leonard Snart is furious brilliance, and Mick Rory is certifiable insanity, and it’s not worth it to attack one or the other because whoever does will try – and fail – to fend off both. 

And for the record? They are vicious little bastards on a good day, but when they act in defense of the other, they take it to a whole separate level.

***

When they meet outside the walls of the juvenile detention center, Mick takes Len out for an ice cream sundae. Len orders a double scoop of pistachio and Mick backs him into the dark alley behind the shop, and steals a handful of ice-cold, sugar-sweet kisses, each one longer than the last. 

They are both delinquents, but before his introduction to Len’s mouth, Mick was never much of a thief, mostly because he didn’t think anything was worth stealing. That’s okay, though. Before becoming intimately acquainted with Mick’s hands, Len never believed that anyone could make him burn. 

The next time they go out, Len has two hundred bucks in his pocket and a reservation to a fancy dessert shop in one of the nicer parts of town. Both he and Mick look out of place, scruffy teenagers in a room full of well-dressed adults, but it’s worth it when the waitress carries a fiery saucepan of Bananas Fosters to their table.

Mick’s eyes go big and round, like two shiny, brown buttons. It is the most expression Len has ever seen on his face when they’re in public, riveted by the flambéed dessert as the woman deftly spins her wrist, causing the sauce to smother the bananas and extinguish the remaining flame. A second waiter sets a single, large bowl of vanilla ice cream in the middle of their table and the first woman portions out the bananas before covering the whole dish with sauce that smells strongly of cinnamon and rum.

After they pay for dessert, they use the rest of the money to rent a motel room, and Mick sets the world on fire and Len lays next to him in bed, content to watch it burn.

***

_fin_


	3. Kitchen // Barry, Mick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Takes place: Towards the very end of “The Criminal Keeper,” a day or two before Mick spills the “boyfriend” beans.

***

“Can’t figure it out,” Mick grumbles.

The big man sits on the corner of Barry’s bed, long since claimed as his own. His feet are planted squarely on the ground, elbows balanced on his knees as he leans forward. He is alone with Barry in the tiny apartment tonight, because Mick’s partner is busy doing some reconnaissance on a potential target. Both Len and Lisa are currently camped out in a van, recording security rotations and taking notes on visible surveillance systems of the upscale bank. It’s not a terrible way to spend a night, and usually Mick would be out there with them, but–

That was BB.

Before Barry.

The kid needs to eat. And left to his own devices? He probably won’t. It’s as simple as that.

Mick stares at Barry, sprawled on the sliver of available floor space, takeout container in hand. Barry deftly uses his chopsticks to shovel a generous portion of fried rice into his open mouth. He chews and swallows before voicing his confusion. “Huh?”

“No kitchen,” Mick elaborates, lips turning downwards, a thin, questioning frown. “And no takeout, usually, ‘cept what we bring you.”

Barry blinks, cocking his head to the side. It’s kind of endearing, especially coupled with the way his forehead scrunches up as he brainstorms. It’s always fascinated Mick to watch Len plotting – watch the ideas and possibilities play across his partner’s face. He especially likes the way Len’s face lights up when he comes to a suitable solution.

Watching Barry is much the same.

Barry’s eyebrows shoot up and he says, “Oh! You mean, how do I eat when I don’t have a kitchen to cook in? And since you and Len are total creepers who probably know my credit score–”

“–647,” Mick interjects seriously.

Barry’s eyes narrow grumpily. “Not helping. Anyway, since you and Len seem to know pretty much everything about me that leaves a paper trail, you know I don’t often splurge on takeout.” He lifts his fried rice in salute. “Or at least, I didn’t until you two started feeding me.”

Mick rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Like I said. Can’t figure it out.”

Barry considers Mick for just a moment, then sets his takeout container mindfully off to one side. From his spot on the floor, he reaches underneath the bed and tugs out a large, plastic bin with a bright, blue lid. He opens the bin with a flourish, revealing its contents under Mick’s interested gaze.

“The Poor Man’s Living 101,” Barry explains, pointing to each item. “One well-used hotplate, which lets me fry, boil, or otherwise cook one thing at a time. One medium saucepan and frying pan. Couldn’t get the large ones because they tend to tip off the hotplate when you’re not looking. One dish, one bowl, couple of forks, knives, and spoons. Basic spices: salt, pepper, garlic powder.”

Mick points to a handful of sealed, Styrofoam cups. Barry grins. “Emergency stash of ramen noodles.”

The big man takes it all in, unfazed, then comments, “Bathroom sink isn’t big enough to wash those pans.”

“But the shower is.” Barry shrugs, and Mick takes a moment to appreciate the image of Barry naked in the shower, washing dishes. His thoughts are interrupted as Barry continues, “I spent most of my childhood in an orphanage. There were set meal times, and you ate what you were given. We – the kids, I mean – were never allowed into the kitchen, so it was almost like we didn’t have one.”

Barry looks around his tiny, single room apartment. “I guess this place is probably so cheap because there isn’t a kitchen, but – I don’t know. It just never seemed like a big deal to me, because when I was growing up, I was never hungry... but I was never full, either. Food just isn’t – important, if that makes sense?”

Mick frowns, shoulder’s tensing. “Food’s important. It’s–” He pauses, groping for the right words, failing to find them. Lamely, he repeats, “It’s important.”

Barry grins and amends, “Well. It never _used_ to be, okay? But now, with you and Len and your constantly spoiling me with takeout – I almost kind of wish I had a kitchen. Because it’s starting to become important. And I kind of feel bad that I don’t have a refrigerator to keep the leftovers.”

Mick’s shoulders relax marginally.

Because food? Food means that someone cares. And that’s the whole point, really.

And if Barry’s upbringing has made it so that message is getting lost in translation, well. Mick’s not a coward. He’s more than happy to use his words to make sure he’s understood. It’ll have to wait until Len’s around too, though.

And after that’s sorted – when Len and Mick have a little more say on Barry’s life – he’ll work on warming the kid up to a bigger apartment.

Seriously, Poor Man’s Living and clever little blue-lidded bins under the bed aside, the kid needs a fucking kitchen.

***

_fin_


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